Earth-Shattering Confessions
by InitialLuv
Summary: Stuck together "indefinitely," McCormick and Sonny Daye use the time to discuss subjects typically avoided.
1. Part I

_**Author's Note:**_ I've been working on this for a while, and as per usual, I got impatient and wanted to post. Not done, but will be concluded in Part Three.

The time period of this story is the fall of 1987.

*Some of the conversations in this story refer to (past) events that happen in my first **_Hardcastle and McCormick_** fanfic, _Hidden Scars_.

 **-ck**

Disclaimer: _I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback,_ _ **not**_ _for profit._

* * *

 _ **EARTH-SHATTERING CONFESSIONS**_

 **By InitialLuv**

 _ **Part I**_

After checking that the fishing gear was properly secured, Mark McCormick hopped down from the bed of the pickup. He glanced in the direction of the main house, his expression guarded, and then turned to his friend.

"I don't know why you have to leave so early, Judge. Charlie's not even coming until the afternoon."

Milton C. Hardcastle shook his head, looking up at the heavens. "God help me," he muttered. More clearly, he said, "How many times do I have to go over this? I wanted that decent cabin by the river, and the only way they'd guarantee it is if I got there on Thursday."

McCormick glowered. "Fine. I get it. I mean why do you have to leave so _early_. It's only seven." He sent another quick look at the house.

Hardcastle leaned against the cab of the truck. "You have class at ten today – you'll be leaving around nine? You can't handle two hours alone with him?"

"He'll still be here when I get home, too. He's not leaving for Vegas until late. He said he'd rather drive at night and avoid any heavy traffic. That's a heck of a lot more than two hours." McCormick frowned at the ground.

Milt sighed, shaking his head again, only this time more gently.

"Listen, kiddo." He waited until McCormick looked up. "You have to look at this as an opportunity." Mark's face showed a mixture of doubt and disbelief, but the older man persevered. "You said yourself you chickened out the last time he was here, that he admitted to something but you didn't push him on it."

"What was I supposed to say?" McCormick said. "'I never meant to walk out on you and your mother.' Kind of an empty admission, Judge."

"Well, maybe that's all he was capable of. But I think it was an olive branch. Okay, maybe the bar thing didn't work out, but that wasn't exactly his fault. It's not like he was responsible for the dead bodies stashed there."

"Hmmph." McCormick's sulky huff sounded very similar to the one the judge often made. Hardcastle smiled as he recognized the similarity.

"What are you smiling at?" Mark demanded.

"Nothing." Milt cleared his throat slightly and squelched the smile. Then suddenly remembering the time, he checked his watch. "Damn. It's already ten after. I wanted to avoid rush hour." Opening up the door of the pickup, he hoisted himself inside. "You're coming up tomorrow after your last class?"

"Yeah, I'll probably get there around seven or seven-thirty." Mark slammed the door for the judge, then propped his hands onto the open window. "Oh – hey, can I check your files on the Langier case? I was thinking about using it for moot court."

"Are you nuts? Langier? After all we had to do to get that lowlife. . . And you know that case was airtight! How could you think of even doing a moot appeal of that verdict?

Mark shrugged, grinning. "I don't know. Maybe because his first time in court, he got away dirty. His first time in _your_ court, specifically."

The retired jurist growled something unintelligible about tainted evidence. McCormick _hmmped._

"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up." But Milt's glare was somewhat weak, and was soon replaced with a serious look. "You don't have to ask to go through the files, McCormick. A good share of them are because of you, you know."

"Okay. Thanks." Mark's grin widened. He slapped a hand against the door, backing away from the window as Hardcastle started up the pickup and put it into gear. Then, just before the judge pulled away down the drive, he called out to the younger man.

"Go talk to your dad!"

And McCormick's grin disappeared.

ooOoo

Late Tuesday afternoon Mark had returned home from an after-class study group, tired and stressed. He'd been hoping to hole up in the gatehouse with his books and a cold beer or two, only to have his plans crushed when he spied a seldom-seen but still familiar dark red Cadillac parked near the fountain. _Not_ _red_ _, "Autumn Maple Firemist,"_ McCormick had unconsciously corrected himself. Whether the car was a dedicated rental or actually in his father's name, Mark had grudgingly admitted to himself that the older man had style. The luxury convertible certainly was eye-catching.

McCormick had briefly considered turning the Coyote back down the drive and heading . . . anywhere, to avoid what he was sure would be an uncomfortable and awkward reunion. But when he realized that any escape, no matter how halfhearted, would cast him in the same vein as his elusive father, he'd banished the idea of flight and had eventually plodded wearily into the main house. Sonny and Hardcastle had been in the den, visiting almost companionably, and the lounge singer had looked up with a genuine smile when his son had entered the room.

The sincere expression had caught Mark off-guard, as had the entire spontaneous visit. "Just passing through between shows in San Diego and Vegas, thought I'd drop by for a day or two," had been Sonny's explanation for his unexpected presence. It seemed innocuous enough, although McCormick couldn't shake a nagging suspicion, whether or not it was warranted. And even though he'd been in class for a good part of the time that Sonny had been visiting, Mark felt like the last day and a half with his father had been some of the most uncomfortable hours of his life.

Excluding his time in prison.

Maybe.

McCormick meandered around the lawn for several minutes, occasionally bending to make a show of checking a bush or a flower bed, as if making mental notes for upcoming autumnal landscaping. But as this was his fifth autumn in residence at Gulls' Way, he'd mastered most of the seasonal yardwork, which left him with little excuse for investigating the growth of the hedges or the amount of fallen leaves. Plus, much had already been started by the new service the judge had hired, in order to give the resident law student more time to study.

When he felt properly guilty about his procrastinating, Mark moved slowly to the rear of the house, and trudged up the steps to the back door. He peeked in the window before opening the door, hoping to find the kitchen empty – and found himself looking into the eyes of Sonny Daye, who was looking out the window at him. Mark jerked back in surprise, and had to grab the doorknob to keep his balance on the steps. The door opened under his grasp, and as he had no other choice, he stepped up into the kitchen.

Sonny backed up as his son entered the room. "Milt took off?" he asked.

Mark nodded, looking around the kitchen. "You cleaned up. You didn't have to do that."

"You guys cooked. Least I could do."

"Yeah, we also woke you up at the crack of dawn." McCormick ran his hand over a counter, pushed a few crumbs into his other hand, and then carried them to the trash can. "Sorry about that. But fishing's a big deal around here."

"What, California? Like a coast thing?"

McCormick smiled. "More like a Hardcastle thing."

ooOoo

Mark had thought he'd be able to shake off his father when he headed to the file cabinets in the basement-cum-laundry room, but the older man had followed. "The famous files," he said, as he trailed behind his son. Then, somewhat warily, "How thick is mine?"

Mark was about to answer, but as he opened the basement door and simultaneously flicked on the light, the hanging bulb snapped and sizzled into darkness. "Not again," he moaned.

"What?"

"Oh, the damn light fixture needs to be replaced. The bulb shorts out constantly. At least this time it's daylight and I can see what I'm doing." McCormick moved to a cluttered shelf near the windows, and after some scrounging he located a carton of bulbs. Sonny watched curiously.

"So you're just going to replace the bulb? Why not replace the light? The bulb's just gonna short out again, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Mark pulled a bulb from the package. "But I have a history of shocking myself when I work with electrical stuff. Trust me, keeping plenty of replacement bulbs down here is easier." The younger ex-con handed the fresh bulb to Sonny. "Here, hold this."

Sonny peered up at the light fixture. "What are you going to do, get a ladder?"

Mark shook his head with a smile. "I don't need a ladder."

The older man looked up at the hanging light again, and then squinted at his son. "I get it. You're tall." McCormick grinned back. "But you're also delusional if you think you can reach that light."

"I'm taller than you, but I'm not _that_ tall." Mark admitted. "But I still don't need a ladder." He moved to one of the file cabinets, and placed a foot on the handle of the lowest cabinet drawer. Then using the consecutive handles as steps, he nimbly climbed to the top of the cabinet, moving quickly so that his weight wouldn't tip the cabinet forward. "Be careful!" Sonny hissed.

Mark waved him off. "I've done this plenty of times. Told you, the bulb goes out a lot." He stood up slowly, straddling the two file cabinets, and leaned out to reach the light fixture. After a few quick twists he had the dead bulb out, and placed it on the top of a cabinet. "Give me the new bulb."

The older man reached up to hand his son the new bulb; in the process his other hand brushed the burnt-out bulb on the top of the file cabinet, and it rolled off to shatter onto the floor. Both ex-cons looked down at the mess, cursing in unison.

Sonny sent a guilty smile at his son. "Sorry. I'll clean it up. There a broom down here?"

"Yeah. Behind the door." Mark pointed. Sonny went to retrieve the broom and dustpan, closing the door so he could better reach the items. Mark leaned out again, one foot on each cabinet, new bulb in hand.

The first hint of tremor seemed more his imagination, a possible wave of disorientation from not having firm ground beneath him. And then the quaking hit in earnest, knocking the washer and dryer together, rattling the windows, and causing the file cabinets to sway under his feet. McCormick attempted to pull his body back and crouch down, but he moved to the right as the cabinets moved to the left, and he felt himself tipping forward. Dropping the bulb, he swung his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance.

The second bulb fell and exploded near the first. Mark fell a second later. His head hit the floor, hard, and everything went dark.

 _ **-TO BE CONTINUED-**_


	2. Part II

_**Author's Note:**_ A longer chapter. The second of what is to be three parts.

Some of the conversations in this story refer to (past) events that happen in my first _**Hardcastle and McCormick**_ fanfic, _Hidden Scars_.

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **EARTH-SHATTERING CONFESSIONS**_

 _ **Part II**_

Mark shifted, mumbling quietly. A sharp pain sliced across his temple, and he gasped, then exhaled slowly.

A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder. "Take it easy. It's all right."

 _That voice. . ._ Mark opened his eyes briefly, only to squeeze them shut as another jolt of pain hit _. I know that voice._

"Dad?"

Mark heard the soft sigh, and then the response, also soft: "Yeah. It's me."

"What – " Mark moved again, and felt the hand on his shoulder press down a little harder. "Relax. It's okay, Markie. You're gonna be all right."

McCormick wasn't sure if it was the childish nickname or his growing consciousness, but something clicked in his brain, and he began to feel the edges of memory return. He opened his eyes again, squinting up at his father.

"Sonny. "

A brief look of disappointment shadowed the older man's face, and then he smiled. "You back with me? You've been out of it for a while – you hit your head pretty good when you fell."

Mark angled his eyes, trying to look around and get his bearings while moving his head as little as possible. He was lying in between the file cabinets and the washer and dryer, his head slightly elevated on what felt to be a folded-up towel. McCormick tried to remember if there had been clean laundry in the room, or if Sonny had only been able to find linens that were waiting to be washed.

As for Sonny. . . Mark let his eyes wander back to his father, kneeling at his side. Previously casually – but still stylishly – dressed in pressed trousers and open-throat dress shirt, the man looked a little worse for wear. His shirt had pulled partially out of his slacks, the knees of which were smeared with dust. One of the buttons was missing off of Sonny's shirt, and he had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. Even with the sleeves pushed up, Mark didn't miss the blood smeared on the right cuff. There were also blood stains on the small towel in the man's hand.

"Hey – are you bleeding?"

Sonny's face was momentarily blank, and then he looked at where Mark's gaze was pointed. "Oh. Uh, no. I'm not. . . That's your blood."

At the clarification, Mark's hand went immediately to his forehead. Sonny reached out at the same time, forestalling the movement. "Hey, careful. I just got the bleeding stopped. You split the skin above your right eye when you smacked your head. You might need stitches."

Undeterred, McCormick reached up to explore the injury with his other hand – only to find it was wrapped in Sonny's handkerchief, and was somewhat painful. "What happened here?" he asked, flexing his hand lightly.

"Oh, that. Yeah. When you fell, you kind of landed in the broken glass from the bulb." Sonny attempted a contrite smile. "I said I was sorry. I didn't get a chance to clean it up before the quake hit."

"Yeah, well, I dropped the other bulb. Who knows which one cut me up. So I guess that lets you off the hook." Mark blinked slowly, and found his right eye was slightly harder to re-open. Then he repeated, "Quake. Earthquake." After a moment he said, "Was it a bad one?"

"I haven't been in enough to know. That was really only my third, and the first one I was in was pretty mild, and short, too." Sonny shook his head. "This one seemed like it took forever. A few things got knocked around in here, but I don't know about the rest of the house."

"Well, let's go check. Help me up." Mark attempted to pull himself into a sitting position, but was unsuccessful – partially because of a sudden and extreme wave of dizziness, and partially because of Sonny holding him back. "Just stay still," Sonny admonished. "I don't want you passing out again. Anyway, we can't get to the rest of the house." He nodded toward the doorway. "The door's jammed."

Mark groaned, settling back onto his makeshift pillow and again closing his eyes. Once he felt he could open his eyes without too much discomfort, he looked in the direction of the door. "Why is it closed? I don't remember closing it."

Sonny sighed. "Okay, that's my fault, too. I had to close the door to get to the broom." When Mark didn't answer, only staring in disbelief at his father, the older man went on. "I don't think anything's blocking it. Probably the frame shifted in the quake. I can't get it to budge. I think we're stuck here."

McCormick thought for a moment. "Wait. The phone. We can call someone."

The lounge singer leaned back slightly, regarding his injured son. "Mark. I just said we're stuck in here. I can't get to a phone."

"No – " Mark shook his head gingerly. "There's a phone in here." Sonny looked around curiously. "It's over on the shelf," Mark continued. "Probably buried under everything. Just look for the cord. The jack's on the floor."

Sonny rose, dusted off the knees of his pants, and headed for the shelf by the louvered windows. After a short investigation he happily called back, "I see the wire!" Then he was following the wire up to the phone, which was indeed buried under an assortment of items that Mark had tossed around when looking for the light bulbs, as well as things that had fallen during the quake. Sonny lifted the receiver to his ear, and then his face fell. McCormick predicted his next words.

"It's dead."

But Sonny had barely made his depressing revelation when McCormick realized, with perfect clarity, that he knew how they were going to get out of their predicament. "We'll just have to wait for Hardcastle to get back," he said confidently. "It shouldn't be long."

Sonny again looked warily at the younger man. "The judge went up north to that cabin, to do some fishing with his bailiff friend. You remember that, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember that – I didn't hit my head _that_ hard." Mark tried a scornful look, but it just made his face hurt, and he had a feeling he couldn't carry it off. "But as soon as the quake hit, he would have pulled off the road, and the next thing he would have done was find a working phone, so he could call and check on us. And when he realizes our phone lines are down, he'll turn around to head back. You'll see."

Sonny nodded slowly. "Unless there's road blockage or damage, and he can't get through. We don't know how bad the quake was. And maybe it was worse where Milt was. Something could have happened to him. He might not be able to get back here."

McCormick glared up at his father, and this time he had no problem attaining a scornful look.

"Shut up, Sonny."

ooOoo

For two men in such close quarters, the father and son did remarkably well not speaking to each other . . . for about five minutes.

Sonny spoke first. "I didn't mean to get you mad, Mark. I just didn't want you to get your hopes up in case . . . something happened."

McCormick let out a terse breath. "You think I'm not worried about him? I'm not dumb, I know something might have happened." His voice softened. "But he's always there for me. I've always been able to count on him."

"Right. As opposed to me." Sonny had again seated himself next to McCormick, and he was idly toying with the hand towel he had used to tend to Mark's head wound. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Mark laughed, winced, then swallowed back a moan. "Only because you're stuck here!" He gestured weakly at the door. "If you could have gotten out of here you would have."

"Yeah, to get to a phone and call someone! You were out cold, and I didn't know how bad you might be hurt." Sonny shook his head dejectedly. "You think so poorly of me that you'd expect me to leave you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"For the love of – I'm not going to take off and leave you alone when you're hurt!" Sonny's eyes narrowed, and his face became stony. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked harshly. "I thought, after the whole bar thing last year, that we left things on okay terms. That we understood each other. But you've been a pain in the ass the whole time I've been here."

" _You've_ got a problem with _me_?" Mark lifted his head from the towel-pillow.

"Yeah, maybe I do! I don't know why you're being like this!"

"Well neither do I!"

After the exclaimed admission, both men stared at each other. Sonny smiled first, and then McCormick grinned back. "Sorry. I guess I have been acting like a jerk. Maybe I just figured that way it wouldn't bother me as much when you left, and I didn't see you again for another year." Mark's grin weakened.

"I've told you before, Mark, it's the lifestyle. It's not like I'm avoiding you. . ." The older man trailed off, his eyes steady on his son's face. Mark returned the gaze, his brow wrinkling slightly. "What? What are you looking at?"

Sonny shook himself lightly, then leaned closer to Mark. "I think it's bleeding again." Refolding the towel, he reached forward and applied direct pressure to the wound. Mark jerked in pain, and then his injured hand struck the nearby file cabinet.

" _Ow!_ Dad!"

"Sorry." Sonny's face still had a look of unease, and he noticeably averted his eyes from Mark's injury.

McCormick looked up at his father, his face mirroring the discomfort of the older man. "Oh, don't tell me blood makes you sick or something. Please don't puke, Sonny. I'm close to puking myself, and if you throw up, I'll throw up."

"Nah, that's not it." Sonny smiled grimly. "No, I was . . . remembering something. No big deal. Forget about it."

Lying on the floor, with a folded up towel pressing onto his forehead and a throbbing headache, Mark was still able to manage a slight raise of one eyebrow and a direct stare. "Sonny. You can't just bring up some vague thing like that and then tell me to forget it. We're gonna be stuck here for who knows how long; we might as well use the time for something constructive."

Sonny sighed, giving a half-shrug, and McCormick pushed a little further. "C'mon. Give. It'll distract me." He tried for his most pathetic look, the one that even Hardcastle had a hard time denying.

Apparently "the look" worked on Sonny, too – or McCormick looked a little more injured and helpless than even he realized. Either way, the older man granted his request.

"All right. I was just reminded of something that happened a while ago, when you were a kid. You were pretty young, four, I think. You probably don't even remember it – "

"When I cracked my head open, and you and mom had to take me to the hospital."

Sonny's eyes widened. "You remember that?"

Mark smiled slightly. "Well, I hadn't. I'd forgotten it. Something triggered it a year back or so. I don't remember everything, but I kind of have the general idea of what happened." His smile faded. "I have a pretty good memory of the fit I threw in the hospital room, that Mom couldn't calm me down."

Sonny was nodding. "That's right. I think you were afraid of the needle or syringe or something."

"Yeah," Mark said softly, almost in a whisper. He frowned, an expression of regret. "I hate to think of what I put Mom through."

"You were a kid. And you were scared." Sonny laid his free hand on Mark's shoulder. "Your mom and I were scared. You'd never really gotten hurt before that. It was . . . unsettling."

Both men were quiet for a time, then McCormick moved suddenly. Sonny's hand, holding the compress against Mark's forehead, slipped off. "Hey – " He started to reprimand Mark against moving, but the younger man interrupted him.

" _That's_ why you left."

"What are you – "

"That's what you basically said in that excuse for a good-bye note in Atlantic City." McCormick sat up half-way. "You were scared. The stuff that came with being a father? You didn't think you could handle it, so you left." Mark's tone held a combination of wonderment and accusation.

Sonny didn't answer. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His expression was a textbook poker face.

"That's gotta be it. That's it, isn't it?" McCormick was breathing rapidly, and he could feel perspiration breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. He suddenly felt queasy and dropped back down, swallowing nervously.

Sonny's expression had abruptly changed from blank to worried. "You're looking kind of green there. Are you gonna get sick?"

"Oh, I hope not." Mark swallowed again, then began to breathe deep and slow in an attempt to settle himself.

"Well, maybe try to not get so worked up, huh, Markie?"

"Stop that!" McCormick forgot about the steady breathing. "Stop calling me that!" He glowered at the older man. "That's all this is to you, being a father. Gifts and fun and nicknames, but when things get tough you cut out. When I really needed you, you couldn't be bothered with me. That's not what a father does! Hell, that's not what a friend does!"

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to see you hurt or in trouble? That it's too hard to see you like – like _this_ – and not be able to help? Why do you think I didn't visit you when you got shot? What, did you think I didn't care?" He exhaled shortly. "No wonder you're ticked at me."

McCormick thought he actually felt his jaw drop in surprise. "You – knew I got shot? I mean, when it happened?" When Sonny had "dropped in" the previous year with the deed to the night club, Mark's recent injury had been alluded to, although none of three men had felt the need to go into detail. But Mark recalled Sonny claiming both concern – and ignorance. "When did you know? Hardcastle said he couldn't track you down. He said he tried, when I was – when he didn't know if I was going to be all right, but that he couldn't find you."

"He found me."

"But you didn't come."

"No." Sonny looked levelly at his son. "And I'm not surprised he lied to you, said he couldn't find me. Easier to explain than a father who wouldn't come to see his kid in the hospital."

"Why?" Mark asked, the single word a plaintive whisper.

Instead of answering, Sonny continued with his earlier recollection. "When you got hurt when you were a kid, your mom was the one that kept calm and decided we needed to take you to the hospital. I was just the chauffeur. I was ready to leave then, after your mom and you went with the nurse, but I couldn't get a good opening." Sonny stopped, and now he was breathing heavily.

Mark was still subdued. "But – but I remember you singing to me. You helped."

Sonny shrugged, smiling wanly. "So I wasn't all bad?" His breathing slowed.

"No . . . Not all," Mark admitted. "But what happened? What changed things?"

"I don't know if things were ever that different to begin with. That me being . . . irresponsible was much of a change." Sonny frowned. "I don't know what I'm saying. But you're right – all I wanted to do was be the fun guy, the one who could come and go and not have to deal with discipline and injuries and the bills. Your mom did it all, even before I left. I just provided the money, and a little companionship, but I wasn't a commitment kind of guy. Not then, not now." His eyes unfocused slightly, his expression wistful. "But if there ever was someone who made me want to try, it was your mother. I might not have always come through, but there were times when I got close."

McCormick inhaled sharply. "She didn't talk about you much, once she knew you were in the wind. She kept that picture, but when she died, I couldn't find it. I don't know, maybe she had tossed it by then."

Sonny sighed gloomily. "Yeah. I wouldn't have blamed her."

"Neither do I." Mark said. "You running off with no warning, not even a good-bye, leaving her to raise me by herself with no worthwhile family to help. . . " He looked questioningly at the older man. "What, you couldn't even make a phone call? Drop a letter in the mailbox?"

"Who said there was no warning? Maybe I didn't exactly say 'Good-bye forever,' but your mother wasn't stupid. She knew the kind of stuff I was involved in, that there was a possibility I might be forced to leave." He paused. "And when you only get one phone call, you have to be selective. You know how that is."

"Oh, don't throw that at me – " Mark broke off. "Wait. You got arrested? That's why you didn't come back?"

"Well, it was maybe two weeks before. And it was Mickey Thompson who got arrested. When I left you guys, I left Mickey Thompson behind, too. I started over. No gal, no son. And you know what? That was probably a damn good thing. Some of the people I hooked up with, the ones who needed my . . . 'services'. . . If they knew about the two of you, they might have tried something to get me to do some stuff I didn't want to do. You and your mom could have been in danger."

"Oh. I see." McCormick nodded sagely. "It wasn't because you were 'scared of being a father.' You left us to keep us safe."

Sonny smiled. "Yeah, now you're getting it."

"Bull."

The smile dissolved. "What do you mean, 'bull'?"

"I mean, if you really cared about us, if you really wanted to keep us safe, you would have gotten out of the business. You would have gone straight." Mark was suddenly weary. "Why don't you just admit you left us because you were a coward?"

The lounge singer's face blanched. He tossed the bloody hand towel onto Mark's chest and then rose, going over to the door. Grasping the handle in both hands, he braced his feet and pulled, to no avail. Changing his stance and reversing the grip of his hands, he tried again – only to have his hand slip off the doorknob and fly back to smack against the railing behind him. "Damn!" he cried.

McCormick had lifted himself up on an elbow and was watching incredulously. When Sonny went back to try opening the door a third time, Mark swore as well. "Damn it Sonny, stop! It's stuck! You're just going – "

But whatever Sonny was going to do remained a mystery, as Mark lost his battle with the queasiness. He was just able to turn his head to the side before he vomited.

Sonny left the doorway and was at his son's side in seconds, helping to hold him up. "You just couldn't lie still, could you?"

Mark coughed and heaved again; it was several moments before he answered. "Your fault. Gettin' me all upset." He felt ready to collapse. Sonny, sensing the dead weight he was suddenly supporting, eased him back gently. "You done, you think?

McCormick nodded, too exhausted to speak. He lifted a shaking hand to rub at his mouth, then closed his eyes.

 _ **-TO BE CONCLUDED-**_


	3. Part III

_**Author's Note:**_ This is the longest, and "final," chapter. (I added an Epilogue.)

Thanks to all who have been waiting!

Some of the conversations in this story refer to (past) events that happen in my first _**Hardcastle and McCormick**_ fanfic, _Hidden Scars_.

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **EARTH-SHATTERING CONFESSIONS**_

 **Part III**

When McCormick woke again, he saw no trace of the mess he had made. _At least we got stuck in a room with plenty of laundry to clean things up._ Other than the awful taste in his mouth, there was little reminder that he had gotten sick.

Sonny was sitting nearby, with his back against one of the file cabinets and his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He had his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Mark watched him for a moment before exhaling softly and closing his own eyes.

"You awake?"

McCormick opened his eyes again to see Sonny looking at him. "Thought you were sleeping."

"Nah. Just resting my eyes." Sonny straightened, stretched, and then rose. Going over to the shelf, he picked up the phone receiver and listened to the silence for several seconds, then replaced it with a sigh. He returned to his son's side. "How are you feeling?"

Mark swallowed a few times, hoping that saliva could help wash away the rancid taste . At the same time, he thought how best to answer Sonny's question. His stomach was still churning, his head was throbbing, and his vision was slightly blurry, especially in his right eye. His left hand was stiff and sore, and even though he had been asleep, he still felt dead-tired. So all-in-all, he felt –

"Lousy," he answered, deciding on concise and honest.

Sonny crouched down near Mark, adjusting the towel under the young man's head. "I don't know how to help you, kid. I can't get you out of here, I can't call anyone, and it's been over an hour since that quake hit, but no sign of the judge." He spread his hands out in supplication. "Tell me what to do."

McCormick swallowed again, then shook his head marginally. "There's nothing we can do. Except wait. Either for the phone lines to get fixed, or for someone to find us." He gazed up at his father. "You're doing fine, Sonny."

The older man seemed doubtful, but decided to take the complement at face value. He settled on his rear again, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position and resting his arms on his knees. Mark caught a glimpse of his father's watch. "What time is it?" he inquired. Mindful of the injury to his left hand, McCormick hadn't tried to check his own watch. He also wasn't sure he would have been able to decipher it.

"Oh." Sonny glanced at his timepiece. "Twenty after nine."

"What time did the quake hit? Seven-thirty?"

Sonny shrugged, see-sawing his hand. "At least. Maybe closer to eight."

McCormick tried to internally calculate how far Hardcastle could have gotten before the earthquake struck, and how long it would take him to drive back to Gulls' Way. Of course, he had to add in extra time for an attempted phone call and possible road detours. . . But the longer he tried to estimate the judge's possible arrival time, the more his head hurt. And the more his head hurt, the more foggy things became.

"What time is it?"

Sonny lifted his arm automatically, then slowly lowered it and looked closely at Mark. Mark stared back, blinked, and then gave a sheepish half-smile. "I just asked that, didn't I?"

"A minute ago, yeah." Sonny fought to keep his voice and face calm. "You don't remember?"

"Uh, not really."

Sonny lifted a hand and scrubbed at his face. "Ah, hell," he muttered. McCormick peered up at him. "Sonny?" he asked anxiously. "You okay?"

"Me? _I'm_ fine! It's – " Sonny waved a hand at his son. "It's _you_. You're in a bad way, and I can't do anything about it."

Mark didn't deny it, but he didn't see the point of belaboring the issue. "Can we – can we just talk about something else?" he asked quietly.

"Sure." Sonny forced a smile. "What do you want to talk about?"

McCormick was silent for a moment, his face thoughtful. Then, with a small smile, he replied: "You."

"Wha – me?" The elder ex-con raised his eyebrows. "Why? What do – what do you want me to tell you? My life story?" He laughed nervously. "Which life?"

"No. I wouldn't expect you to tell me the truth, anyway." Mark was still smiling. "But maybe you could answer a question or two."

"I'm not promising anything, but go ahead."

"Okay." Mark gave a brief nod, suddenly solemn. "Ah. . . Why 'Sonny Daye'?

"That?" Sonny grinned. "Huh. Okay. Daye was just the next one down the line, after Tommy 'Night'. And, uh, Sonny. . . Well, my old man called me Sonny. You know, as a nickname."

"Your old man? Like, my grandfather?" McCormick perked up, and was able to momentarily ignore his headache. "What was his name?"

But Sonny pursed his lips and shook his head tightly. "Try something else," he directed.

"Oh." Temporarily dejected, Mark couldn't think of another harmless question. Then he blurted out: "What was your mom's name?"

"Mark. Stop it. We're not going to talk about that," Sonny said, his tone firm.

"Fine. Whatever." McCormick answered sullenly. "But do you realize, I have no idea who I am? Where I come from? Mom never talked about her family; both of her parents were dead, and her brother. . . " Mark exhaled forcefully. "And even when she tried to tell me about you – which she didn't, much – everything you told her was probably lies, right? Did you ever tell _her_ your parents' names?"

Sonny sighed, looking around the room uncomfortably. "Maybe this isn't a good idea, Mark. Why don't you just get some rest, and hopefully Milt – "

" _No_!" McCormick was suddenly angry, and he slammed his right hand down onto the floor. "I. Want. To. Talk. About. You." He punctuated each word with a slap of his hand, the sound abnormally loud in the closed-in room.

Sonny leaned forward, covering Mark's hand with his own and holding it down. "Hey, hey. Relax, kid. Take it easy. We'll talk."

McCormick was visibly shaken and breathing hard. He clenched his hands into fists, grimacing at the pain in his left hand, and closed his eyes. _Relax, relax, relax,_ he chanted in his head as he attempted to calm himself.

It was roughly a minute before McCormick began to feel more in control. He opened his eyes to see Sonny watching him apprehensively. "You okay now?"

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Sonny tipped his head back, laughing. "All right, I guess you're okay." He became more serious. "No, I don't. My parents wanted more kids but. . . no. No brothers or sisters."

Mark absorbed that for a moment before asking, "Do _I_ have any brothers or sisters?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

Mark shrugged fractionally. "Do I?"

Sonny shook his head, then raised his hands and ran them through his graying waves. "God in Heaven," he murmured. Then louder, "No. You don't." After a moment he added, "I don't think."

McCormick grinned, then huffed softly. "That's okay. I'd probably end up with a brother like Gerald Hardcastle. Or like my mom's brother. Douglas." His voice was flat. "Better to be an only child."

Sonny nodded soberly. "Oh, yeah, I knew Doug. Never really got on with him. Even before your mother – well, even before I got her 'in trouble,' Doug wasn't the most approachable guy. I tried, because your mom and him were pretty close before I came along. But he. . . Well, he was. . ."

"A bastard."

McCormick's face tensed, enough so that Sonny noticed how the blue eyes hardened, and how the dimple was overcome by a sneer. The older man was disconcerted by the atypical expression. Even though he and Mark had reconnected only a few short years ago, Sonny had been fairly certain he'd seen the majority of his son's expressions and moods, at least where he was concerned: anxious confusion and simmering anger, embarrassment and disappointment . . . exasperation, amusement, surprise.

Sonny had never seen this quiet, passionate rage. At least not on Mark's face. He _had_ seen it in prison, on the faces of other cons – usually the cons he'd been sure to avoid.

He had a feeling he was looking at Mark's prison face.

Looking away momentarily, Sonny cleared his throat, then spoke. "So you knew Doug – did your mom and him patch things up?" He glanced back, saw Mark's expression had cleared some, and sighed reflexively in relief before continuing. "They kinda parted ways after you were born, is what I mean."

"I don't remember them ever being close," Mark answered. "But he was the only family she had left, and when things were bad, when money was really tight and we couldn't . . . " He shook his head with a painful grimace. "Things were just bad. And maybe she thought –" Mark paused again, clearing his throat thickly before continuing, "– maybe she thought if she moved us closer to her brother, that they might reconnect. And then maybe he would help us. I don't know." He took a quick breath. "My aunt and my cousin were okay. I know Mom and my aunt would meet for lunch once in a while, after we first moved, like in secret, you know? But then after Mom got sick, that stopped."

Sonny nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "When she got sick, you were how old?"

"Ah, the first time? Thirteen."

A more somber nod. "So you got handed off to your uncle."

McCormick shrugged one shoulder. "Well, him and my aunt. But yeah, I guess."

"I get the impression he wasn't very helpful."

The rage had disappeared from Mark's face. It was now void of expression, and his eyes looked empty. He didn't respond.

"Mark? You okay?"

McCormick blinked slowly. "He's dead, you know."

"Who? Douglas?"

Mark dipped his chin. "They're all dead. Him, Mom, their parents. . . " His words were coming slower, giving Sonny the impression of a tape recorder with run-down batteries. "All I have left is you, and I don't even know your real name."

Sonny exhaled sharply. "Mark, I. . . " he sighed. "I can't – "

McCormick grunted softly. "Don' worry 'bout it," he murmured. "I prob'ly wouldn't 'member if you told me now, anyhow." He moaned, closing his eyes.

"Mark." Sonny reached out to grasp his son's shoulder. " _Mark_. Are you all right?"

Mark looked up from under heavy lids. "I just want to go home," he said quietly. He closed his eyes again, and didn't reopen them. Sonny's hand moved from Mark's shoulder to his head, and he gently brushed the sweaty curls over the still-trickling wound.

"Aw, damn it, kid. . . " _I can't do this alone._

Then Sonny looked across at the windows, sending up a silent prayer for Hardcastle's quick return.

And less than ten minutes later, an answer came in the sound of an approaching engine and a honking horn.

ooOoo

Sonny had rushed to the window to confirm the judge's arrival, and then had moved to the wedged door, all without glancing at Mark. He was waiting impatiently for the sounds of a nearby door opening and closing, of footsteps and a familiar voice, and failed to notice his son's actions. Until he heard the " _oof_ " and turned to see Mark, who had been trying to get on hands and knees, collapse and slide down onto his stomach.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sonny went to Mark's side. "Sit down! _Lay_ down!"

McCormick fought back, still attempting to rise. "Judge!" he called out weakly.

Sonny pushed Mark down again. "Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself more!" At the same time, in the distance, both men heard Hardcastle yell.

"Sonny! McCormick!"

Sonny stood, going to the doorway. "We're down here!" he yelled back. "Judge! Down here!"

"Sonny?" Quick, heavy footsteps approached, and then Hardcastle was on the other side of the door. "You in here?"

Sonny pounded on the door. "The door's jammed – something shifted in the quake! It won't open!"

"Is McCormick with you?"

Sonny looked back at Mark. He was lying down again, partially propped up on his good arm, and watching with glassy eyes.

"He's here. He's hurt, Milt. Get this door open, wouldja?!"

There was rattling and thumping on the other side of the door, even what sounded like a possible kick, but still the door didn't part from the frame. Low curses were heard from Hardcastle's side of the door, increasing in volume with each consecutive failure.

Sonny stepped back, breathing heavily, trying to think. . . And then became aware of soft, stilted singing behind him.

". . .could have an aeroplane flying. . . bring blue sky back. . .  
All you do is call me. . . be anything you need. . .

Sonny quickly moved forward again, hollering out. "Sledgehammer! Milt, do you have a sledgehammer?"

The judge's voice, somewhat out of breath, shouted back. "Yeah, in the garage, I think – or the shed. Be right back!" The heavy footsteps receded, and after a moment, the lounge singer went to kneel by his son. Mark was looking up at him with a faint smile.

"You know that song?"

"What, you think all I know is old standards? Sinatra and Dino? Give your old man some credit, kid. I know what MTV is." Mark let out a shaky laugh, and his father grinned. "That's Peter Gabriel. He used to be in Genesis, with Phil Collins." Sonny tilted his head. "Although, it might have been easier to just say 'tell the judge to get the sledgehammer'."

McCormick's gaze became unfocused. "'Couldn't think a' the word," he slurred.

Sonny had only a few moments to look worriedly at Mark's ashen face, and then he heard the judge returning. "Sonny!" Hardcastle called out. "Are you away from the door?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Heave-ho, Judge!"

It took about five good swings, varying between the base, top, and door jamb, before the door was jarred enough to be opened. Hardcastle dropped the sledgehammer to the floor and pushed the door open, his eyes searching out McCormick's recumbent form. Milt strode earnestly into the room, glancing at Sonny as he passed and noticing the man's untidy appearance. "You okay?" he asked distractedly.

"Fine." Both men knelt by McCormick, one on each side. Mark squinted up at his biological father and surrogate father, then attempted to focus on the judge, as much as his weary eyes and blurry vision would allow.

"Judge!" Mark said, surprised. "Hey! Didja know there was 'n earthquake?"

"You don't say." Milt carefully explored the injury above McCormick's now bruised eye. The young man hissed and winced. "Sorry, kiddo," the judge said softly. He looked accusingly at the man opposite him. "How did this happen?" he demanded, keeping his voice low.

Sonny held his hands up. "He fell, all right?" he answered coldly. "I had nothing to do with it."

"Well, make yourself useful: see if the phones are working yet. Check the one on the shelf." Milt looked back down at his injured friend.

Sonny didn't move. "It wasn't working twenty minutes ago."

Hardcastle raised his head, staring at the lounge singer. "Sonny. Please check the phone," he asked through gritted teeth.

"I'll check it." McCormick struggled to rise, pushing out with his hands, then gasped at the pain in his left hand and fell back. Sonny grimaced in sympathy. "I've got it Mark, settle down, okay?"

As Sonny rose to go to the shelf, Hardcastle examined Mark's injured hand. "I can't leave you alone for a half-hour, can I, McCormick?" he murmured.

Sonny had returned. "Phone's still out." He looked across Mark's body, eyeing the judge. "What do we do?" he asked cautiously.

Hardcastle leaned back on his heels. "We'll take him the hospital ourselves."

Mark moaned. "Hosp'tl?" He looked hopefully at Sonny. "Dad? Do I havta?"

"Sorry, kid," Sonny said with a smile. "Two against one."

McCormick closed his eyes in defeat, starting to drift off. But before he completely lost consciousness, he mumbled one last protest.

"But I wanted t' go fishin'."

* * *

Judge Hardcastle had tried relaxing in the hard-backed visitor's chair and dozing, but the frequent entries and exits of the doctor and nurses, not to mention the random mutterings from McCormick, had prevented him from closing his eyes for more than five minutes at a time. So he had given up, and was clicking through the scant TV lineup when McCormick stirred purposefully.

Milt clicked off the television and tucked the remote back into the clear plastic holder affixed to the wall. He shifted in his chair and looked at his friend, waiting to see how lucid the man was this time.

Mark was turning his head from side to side, wincing as he did so, and then his right hand lifted to his right temple, to briefly touch the bandage above his eye. A moment later he had opened his eyes, and they automatically tracked in the direction of the judge.

"Hi again," Milt greeted him.

"Uh, hi?" Mark swallowed, then let his eyes drift around the room. "Hospital?" he rasped.

Hardcastle sat up a little straighter. This was promising. "Yeah. Well, ER, actually. But they're going to admit you soon. You haven't been doing too great on the neurological checks."

"On. . .on the what?" Mark's eyes clouded, and Hardcastle sighed inwardly, prepared for another disoriented ramble. But Mark only frowned, then said, "I don't remember any of that."

"Doesn't surprise me." Milt shrugged with a smile. "You weren't exactly alert. They were trying to wake you up, get you to answer questions and follow directions. I told them you can't do that on a good day."

McCormick shook his head, grimacing in frustration. "I don't remember being awake." He tried to recall when he'd arrived at the hospital, but his most recent memories were a mix of echoing sounds, disjointed voices, and underlying pain. There were occasional clear recollections: a bright light that pierced his eyes and made his head throb; being pushed through the halls on a gurney; someone's strong hands supporting him while he retched into an emesis basin.

"They took you for a scan, to make sure you didn't have a skull fracture or any bleeding in your noggin. Do you remember that?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Mark looked anxiously at the judge. "And. . ?"

"You checked out – just a concussion. A bad one, but you're going to be all right." When Mark didn't respond, Hardcastle asked, "You hear me?"

Mark shifted in the bed, looking around the small room. His frown had not lessened. "How long have I been here?"

Milt looked down at his watch. "A couple hours, give or take. I know it was about three hours ago that I got to you and Sonny."

"So I lost three hours?"

"You didn't miss much. I told you, you weren't firing on all cylinders – you thought you were still in the laundry room. But now, you see, I'd say you're making some _head_ way." Hardcastle grinned, but Mark's distress just seemed to increase. The older man sighed. _Okay, maybe not the best time for jokes._

Hardcastle leaned forward, looking seriously at his friend. "If there's something you can't remember, you ask me, okay? I've been here the whole time; I can tell you whatever you need to know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

McCormick settled somewhat; Milt could see the younger man visibly relax. Then Mark swallowed again, and looked at Hardcastle hopefully.

"Can you get me some water?"

Milt leaned back. "Sure." He rose and left the room, returning less than a minute later with a plastic cup of ice water and a straw. He pressed the button on the bed to incline it, then handed the cup to the younger man. "Take it slow," he directed. "I don't want you to throw up again."

Mark had taken several swallows before the words sunk in, and he stopped abruptly, holding the cup in a slightly shaking hand. "Did – did we take Sonny's car here?"

"You remember that?" Milt gently took the cup away before the water spilled onto the bed sheet.

Mark closed his eyes briefly. "I think so. I remember thinking I really didn't want to puke in his car."

Hardcastle snorted a laugh, and McCormick's eyes flew open. "Oh, God, I didn't, did I?"

"Nah. You were pretty out of it, though." Milt furrowed his brow. "You were mumbling something about the Bible. Kinda worried me a bit there."

"The Bible?" Mark repeated blankly.

"Yeah. Ah. . . Genesis."

McCormick coughed suddenly, and Hardcastle jumped up. "You all right? The water coming back up?"

"No, I'm okay." Mark waved him off. "Why'd we come in Sonny's car, though?"

Hardcastle seated himself again. "That was actually his idea. We couldn't call an ambulance because the phones were still out, and he thought it would be easier to get you in his car than in the pickup. And he was right."

"So. . .where is he?" McCormick asked tensely. "He's not here, is he?"

Milt cleared his throat. "Uh, no. He, uh, well, once the docs got done patching you up, he headed back home. He wanted to get cleaned up and changed, so. . . " He lifted his hands in a "you know" gesture.

"He found an opening," Mark said softly.

"He what?"

"Nothing." Mark looked away, not wanting the judge to see his eyes. _How can I be disappointed in him? Why the hell haven't I learned?"_

"Well, kiddo, don't count him out yet. You said he wasn't going to leave until tonight, right? I'll bet he stops by. He's not going to head out without checking to see that you're all right. I'm sure he'll come to say good-bye – "

"Judge, don't." McCormick turned back. His head was pounding and he felt suddenly tired, but he had to have this out. "Don't lie to me again. I know you did, after I got shot. When you said you couldn't find Sonny." He looked sternly at Hardcastle. "I don't need you to lie about him. He is who he is, and if that's a lousy dad, then. . ." He trailed off, sinking into the pillows.

"How do you know about that?" Milt asked quietly.

"How do you think? He told me."

"So you did talk." There was a tone of satisfaction to the remark, and McCormick tilted his head to see the judge was smiling. Mark sighed in exasperation. "Well, what did you expect us to do while we were stuck there? Play charades?"

Milt chuckled softly, encouraged by the joke. Then his face and voice grew serious. "Whatever you think of him kid, he was worried about you. Even before I got the door open I could tell, the things he was saying. And then how he was acting, treating you like you were gonna break. . ." The older man gestured at Mark's bandaged hand. "He felt pretty responsible for that. The docs think they got all of the glass out, but you're going to have to keep an eye on it and keep it covered, so the cuts don't get infected."

McCormick lifted his injured hand, turning his wrist gingerly and gauging the pain. "No stitches?"

"Well, not there. You got seven in your head."

Mark's right hand lifted to his forehead again, probing the bandage. "Seven. Seriously?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah, why?"

"Never mind." Mark dropped his hand, again resting into the pillows. A small smile pulled at his lips. After a moment, he raised his head to look intently at the judge. "Hey. Are you all right?"

Milt waved a hand between the two of them. "You're the one in the bed, kiddo."

"But – but where were you when it happened? You're okay?"

"I'm fine," Hardcastle said firmly. "I wasn't even on the road when it hit. I was at a gas station." He paused, then asked pointedly, "Who drove the truck last?"

"Ah. . . Huh." McCormick thought for a minute. "I'm not sure." He adopted a bemused expression. "I just can't seem to remember. But I did get hit on the head recently."

"Cute. All right, I'll tell you. You drove it last, hotshot." The judge shook his head in disappointment, although his face was hardly severe. "You knew I was going up to the cabin, and you couldn't even be bothered to gas the truck up for me after you drained the tank?"

"But that was good! Don't you see, Judge? You weren't on the road when the quake hit, because you had to pull over to get gas. So. . ." Mark spread his hands magnanimously. "You're welcome."

The two men were chuckling lightly when Sonny Daye poked his head into the room.

ooOoo

Sonny had indeed cleaned up and changed. Now dressed in a dark blue suit, white dress shirt, and light blue tie, the man appeared ready to perform his act right there in the emergency department. He looked very far from the disheveled man Hardcastle had found on the other side of the basement door – and he also looked to be in a hurry.

"You're leaving?" Mark asked, glaring at his father. "I thought you were going to wait until tonight."

Sonny shrugged with a smile that was possibly apologetic, but most likely flustered. "Yeah, I was, but that was before the earthquake. I just thought it would be better to leave earlier, avoid any aftershocks, you know?"

Hardcastle huffed out a scoff.

At the noise, the lounge singer turned to the judge. "Ah, Milt, you think you can give me and Mark a minute here?"

The judge raised his eyebrows slightly, then looked at Mark. The younger man nodded.

Milt nodded back, then rose and stretched. "Well, I should probably find the ER doc, let him know the kid's awake and making sense," he said. As he passed the bedside on his way out of the room, he gave McCormick's shoulder a light squeeze. Then he was gone.

Mark's eyes followed the judge's exit, then turned to regard his father. Sonny was studying the bandage above Mark's right eye. "Seven stitches – same as last time, right? You're going to have matching scars."

"Yeah, I know." McCormick said. He sighed wearily. "Oh, well. Symmetry." He looked up at his father. "It was nice to see you Sonny," he said flatly. "We'll have to do it again sometime."

Sonny stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and looked down at the floor. "Mark, I wanted – " he shook his head, then tried again. "I wanted to see you and make sure you were okay before I left."

"So you saw me. I'm okay," Mark answered grumpily. Then he gave another sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk again. I really do appreciate you taking care of me this morning, Sonny. I guess I'm just tired."

"Right. Sure." Sonny was still gazing around, not meeting Mark's eyes. Then he stiffened with a kind of resolve, looked directly at his son, and said, "Jacob and Miriam."

Mark looked back, momentarily struck dumb. He blinked, then shook his head. "Who?"

"Your grandparents. My parents."

McCormick blinked again, slow and deliberate. "Your – Jacob and – "

"Miriam. They came over from Latvia together in twenty-two, through Ellis Island. They were newlyweds and _young_ – both under twenty. Ended up settling in Brooklyn. I was born a while later."

Mark's heart was beating faster, and his breathing had quickened. "Latvia? So they were – what?"

"Jewish."

McCormick stared. "I'm Jewish."

"Well, half." Sonny grinned. "You're pretty Irish on your mom's side. Her mother's maiden name was O'Brien, so. .."

Even though his head was still reeling, Mark grasped onto the comment about surnames, and ran with it. "Okay. Miriam and Jacob _what_?"

But Sonny just shook his head. "Miriam and Jacob is enough for now. They changed their last name anyway."

McCormick snorted. "Learned it from the cradle, huh?"

Sonny sent a hard look at his son. "It was just to make it easier to pronounce and write, to anglicize it."

"Oh. Sorry." Mark took a deep breath, then shook his head in awe. "I'm Jewish," he repeated, as if to convince himself of the fact. "Damn."

"I think what you mean is _Oy vey_."

There was a soft knock on the door, and a nurse poked her head in. "Mr. McCormick?" She stepped into the room, then regarded the well-dressed man at the patient's bedside. "Oh, Mr. Daye." The woman blushed, her eyes brightening. "I need to check your son over before we transfer him up to a room. You're welcome to continue your visit with him there." The nurse smiled at the older man. "I can let you know when he's settled,"

Sonny smiled back, winked, and then stepped aside. "No, it's okay, I was on my way out. You do your thing." Before leaving the room, the older man grasped Mark's good hand. "It was nice seeing you, kid. Take care of yourself."

"Yeah. . . you – you too, " McCormick faltered, looking between the nurse and his father. _Damn guy's been flirting with the ER nurse,_ he thought with a barely suppressed grin.

Sonny's firm grip brought Mark back from his musing. He looked up, his grin breaking through, and returned the squeeze. "Thanks for everything, Dad." He was surprised how easy it was to say, and how true it rang.

The nurse nodded at Sonny as he left, then turned back to her patient. "You and your father resemble each other," she said, as she moved nearer the bed.

For once, Mark wasn't annoyed at hearing a comment about his and Sonny's physical similarities. He smiled up at the nurse, even about to agree – and then his face froze.

"Mr. McCormick? Are you all right?"

Fighting to speak past the lump in his throat, McCormick asked the question, even though he thought he already knew the answer.

"What's your first name?"

The nurse looked down at the object that Mark had his eyes locked on: the pin on her lapel, which read "M. Jacobs."

"My name's Miriam. Why do you ask?"

McCormick felt his stomach drop, and his nausea return. He struggled to think of an acceptable response. His voice trembled as he spoke.

"I – I guess I had you confused with someone else."

He knew then that he would always been confused about his own identity.

Not to mention the identity of a man called Sonny Daye.

 _ **EPILOGUE FOLLOWS**_

* * *

 ** _AN:_ **The song that McCormick sings a lyric from is **_Sledgehammer_** , by Peter Gabriel. 1986.

 **-ck**


	4. Epilogue

_**Author's Note:**_ This fic was originally just the three chapters, but I didn't quite like how I had ended the story. I figured McCormick needed a little guidance. So here's an Epilogue.

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **EARTH-SHATTERING CONFESSIONS**_

 **Epilogue**

Hardcastle knocked softly on the door of the hospital room, then pushed it open wide enough to walk through. He smiled at the man in the bed, then looked around, nodding in approval. "Nice. Bigger room." The judge moved to the bedside, and took a seat in the visitor's chair. "Chair's more comfortable, too."

McCormick didn't respond. He was sitting up in the partially inclined bed, staring ahead stonily, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. He hadn't acknowledged the older man's entrance, and had yet to glance his way.

Milt frowned at the silence. He took a quick look at the wall to see what McCormick was staring at, and saw nothing. "Hey. McCormick!"

Mark blinked and slowly turned his head. "What."

Hardcastle shook his head in confusion. "What's going on? I thought you were feeling better."

"I'm fine." The dull tone in which McCormick said the words proved them false the moment they were spoken.

"Right," Hardcastle drawled. Then he sighed lightly. "It's not that bad, kiddo."

Mark's eyes – both the uninjured one and the black one – narrowed in disbelief. " _What_? What the hell – "

At the same time that McCormick was replying, the judge was continuing. "I know you don't like hospitals, but it's just overnight this ti-" Milt broke off as he heard the invective and then took in McCormick's incredulous expression. "What did you think I meant?"

Mark turned away, breathing deeply. "Nothin'."

Milt sighed again, and this time it was heavy with regret. "Of course. What did he say to you?"

Mark shook his head tightly but remained quiet. Hardcastle moved his chair nearer the bed, and looked closely at his friend. "McCormick. What did the son of a bitch say?"

Mark's mouth quirked in a half-grin, but it quickly faded. He turned back to face the judge, but instead of answering, asked his own question.

"You don't really lie to me, do you, Judge?"

Hardcastle gazed at his friend quizzically. "Why would I lie to you?" Then he shrugged, and tilted his head in a nod. "Except when it comes to your dad. Guess I've kinda lied to you twice there," he acknowledged. "With the safe-cracking thing in Jersey – "

"– and after I got shot, and you said you couldn't track him down," McCormick finished. His own face was inquisitive. "I don't even know why you brought it up then. Why you felt like you had to say anything. It's not like I would've been upset that you didn't try to find him – "

"You asked me to."

McCormick looked blankly at the judge. "No, I didn't . . . Did I?"

Hardcastle turned his hands up in a gesture of affirmation. "You mighta been a little loopy at the time, between the drugs and the fever, but yeah. I had told you how I let Barbara and Sarah and the Aunts know what happened, and then you asked what your dad had said. When I told him." Milt sent an annoyed look at his friend. "Sure, you don't remember that, but you remember me telling you I couldn't find him." He shrugged again. "But you were back and forth; sometimes you were okay, and then ten minutes later you'd be talking to people who weren't there." Milt rubbed a hand under his nose, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

"Oh." Mark toyed with the bedsheet, not looking at the judge. "I – I didn't know. Sorry."

Milt looked hard at the younger man. "I don't know what you're apologizing for. I'm the one that lied about it." He took a deep breath. "But that's it, the only times, really. I don't lie to you. Maybe I don't tell you . . . everything all the time, because I don't think you need to know – "

"Because you don't _want_ to tell me – "

" _But_ ," Hardcastle continued with a scowl, "I tell you the truth. And you're just as selective with the information you give me, wise guy."

Mark nodded. "I know." Then he sighed, closing his eyes.

After a few moments of silence, Milt gently prodded, "What did he say, kiddo?"

McCormick leaned back in the bed, then grimaced as an unexpected wave of pain floated through his head. Not wanting to concern the judge more than he already seemed, Mark did his best to work through the discomfort, breathing slowly and evenly. He let his hands wander on the bed sheets, grabbing a handful of the material in his right hand and twisting it. When he finally started to speak, his words were hesitant and his voice rough.

"When we were trapped in the room, I was trying to . . . distract myself. 'Cause I felt lousy, and I was worried about you. So I started asking Sonny questions about him. Thinking he might feel bad enough about me being hurt that he'd tell me something. Or maybe I thought I could trip him up." Mark frowned bitterly. "I'm trying to figure out who I am, you know, where I come from, who my family was? But the guy wouldn't break. Wouldn't even tell me what his parents' names were."

"Okay. . . " Hardcastle waved his hand in a "go on" gesture.

"So we pretty much left it. I wasn't up to fighting him, and then you showed up. You guys got me here, and the whole thing was dropped. Then Sonny stops by to say good-bye. Sends you out of the room." McCormick's face hardened. "Shoulda known then that something was up."

"He wasn't even in there that long," Hardcastle said. "He left when the nurse kicked him out. Said 'bye' to me and went on his way. Shook my hand and everything. He sure as hell didn't act guilty about anything."

"No, why would he? He's such a pro at getting away with the lies and stories that's it's old hat to him. He's not used to getting found out. Must think I'm an idiot," Mark muttered darkly.

"You're gonna make me guess?"

McCormick moved his arms abruptly, crossing them over his chest. "I was being kind of rude, because I had thought, the way he'd been acting at home, that he might actually care about me. But here he was, all ready to take off as soon as possible. I don't know, maybe it was because he knew I'd be okay now that you were here and I was in the hospital. Only that's giving him too much credit. He takes off. It's what he does. But you know," Mark looked sadly at the judge, "I might have been okay with that. I'm used to that. I would have gotten over it. And I might even have thought a little better of him, because he did really try to take care of me when I got hurt."

McCormick repositioned himself, wincing at the weight placed on his injured hand. Milt waited patiently for his friend to continue.

As Mark began to speak again, he looked away from the judge, at the nothing on the opposite wall. "I don't know why he did it. I guess the motive doesn't matter. But all of sudden he starts telling me about his parents, Miriam and Jacob." McCormick fairly spit out the names. "That they emigrated from Latvia in the twenties, came to America through Ellis Island. Lived in Brooklyn." Mark turned suddenly to face Hardcastle. "Latvia. Where is that, Europe?"

Milt had still been processing what McCormick had said, and he jerked slightly. "What? Oh. Yeah, I think so. By Russia." He furrowed his brow. "I don't think there's a big Italian demographic there."

"Nope. Not Italian. He said Jewish. Said they were Jewish. That I'm Jewish."

"Well. . . " Milt hedged. "Not exactly. I mean, he would be, with both parents, but your mother wasn't Jewish, and you weren't raised in the Jewish faith, so. . . " he trailed off as he saw McCormick staring at him in astonishment. "What? I know things," the judge said defensively.

"That's not the point! It was a lie! The whole thing was a damn lie!" Mark threw his hands out in disgust. "Don't the names sound familiar to you? Ring a bell at all?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Should they?"

"Think, Hardcastle. Miriam. Jacob."

The older man frowned thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. "That nurse. The pretty one. You were still out of it then, but I remember she introduced herself when she came on shift. I think her name might have been Miriam." He looked questioningly at McCormick.

"Now you're cookin'," Mark answered with a wan smile. "Miriam Jacobs."

"Son of a bitch," Hardcastle repeated. After a moment, he said, "But Sonny was gone before she started her shift. He'd left, was heading back to the estate by then."

"Yeah? But how long was he back in the ER before he came to say good-bye to me?" Mark lowered his voice in imitation. "'Hey, I'm here to check on my son. I'm really worried about him – So you're a nurse, huh? You're too pretty to be a nurse. You should be a model, or an actress.'" He smiled grimly. "I know he was flirting with her. When she came in the room and saw him, she knew him by name, and got all flustered."

"She had to be at least fifteen years younger than him. She was closer to your age."

McCormick laughed humorlessly. "I don't think that mattered to Sonny, Judge."

Both men were silent for several moments. Mark leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes. Then he sighed heavily.

"It wasn't enough for him to stab me in the back. He had to take the knife and twist it."

Milt nodded absently. "Although. . ."

McCormick sat up and stared at him suspiciously. "Don't you dare defend him."

Hardcastle shifted his eyes guiltily, but went on. "He might not have been lying. Maybe the story was true, but he couldn't give you the names. If you knew the names, you could possibly figure out who they were. Go to New York and do some research. And if you figured out who they were, then you'd figure out who he is. Who he really is. And he's not ready for that. He might never be." Milt shook his head. "He wanted to give you something, give you an answer. He did what he could."

"You don't know that," McCormick said. "I don't know that. I don't know anything. And I don't want anything more to do with him." Mark's voice was cold. "I'm done."

Milt smiled gently. "His loss."

McCormick's returned smile was brief, but appreciative. "Thanks, Judge."

"Hmm," Hardcastle mumbled, his version of "you're welcome." Then the older man became contemplative. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling, thinking quietly.

"He's not your only living relative. You've got a cousin, right? On your mom's side?"

"Yeah . . .my uncle's kid. You knew that? I don't talk about her much."

Milt chuckled. "The blind date. You showed up and it was your cousin."

"Oh yeah." Mark smiled faintly in remembrance. "But I haven't seen her in like ten years. My aunt either. I don't even know if she's still alive." Mark's smile had dissolved. "And my cousin, even if she's still in Jersey, she's probably married, has a different name."

"So? Not everyone is like Sonny, trying to hide their identity," Hardcastle pointed out. "It shouldn't be too hard to track them down. If your aunt died, there'd be an obituary somewhere. And if your cousin's married, there should be a marriage license out there. What was her name? McCormick, right?"

"Yeah. Annie. Anne, I think." But Mark shook his head. "I don't know, Judge. She might not know more than me about that side of my family. Who was going to tell her about her background, her dad? Not likely." Anger bled into McCormick's voice. "I knew the guy."

"Okay, maybe she wouldn't know. But she might also know more than you think."

Mark was adamant in his denial. "There probably wasn't much to tell. Everyone died young. My mom's parents, my mom. . . Even my uncle. He died before he turned fifty."

"Well, you'll never know unless you check. I can help you find them, or her, whatever. We can keep it nice and legal." Hardcastle smiled, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "No breaking and entering necessary."

Mark's response to the smile was a deep sigh. "I don't think so, Judge."

"So you're giving up. You're gonna let Sonny win."

"I didn't say – " McCormick fell back against the pillows. "Judge, I need some time, okay? I gotta get over this thing with Sonny. I just don't think I could handle another disappointment right now."

"Okay." Hardcastle nodded slowly. "I won't push it. But if you change your mind, the offer still stands."

"Thanks," Mark murmured. His eyes felt suddenly heavy, and he realized just how tired and miserable he felt.

Hardcastle saw the weary change come over his friend, and he pushed back his chair. "I should get out of here, let you get some rest. I gotta get back home and check on things, see how bad it looks." He glanced at his watch. "Hopefully the phones are back up, and I can call the insurance guy before they close. Although they might be staying open late tonight to deal with all the claims."

Mark looked up as the judge rose. "Was there a lot of damage?"

Milt shrugged. "I didn't get a chance to look too close. I did notice a new crack in the fountain," he said with a small grin.

"Great. I was hoping to get a day off to recover," Mark complained.

"Ah, don't worry about it. You're on the IR until your doctor says different." Hardcastle gestured at the bed controls. "You want me to lower that for you?"

"Nah. They'll be in here pretty soon to do my concussion check, so there's no point in getting comfortable."

"Right. Well, I'll come back later, see how you're doing." Milt moved toward the door, then paused, turning back to McCormick.

"I shouldn't have to tell you this, but. . .you've got plenty of family."

Mark squinted his eyes, looking somewhat confused, and Hardcastle sighed in exasperation. "I mean in between Didi and the Aunts and Gerald, plus Warren and her mom. . . Well, you're an honorary Hardcastle, you know."

McCormick's confused expression gave way to a wide grin. The judge glared back, although the look was tinged with embarrassment. "You knew what I meant," he accused the younger man.

"Yeah," Mark confessed. When Hardcastle's glare became more focused, Mark amended his statement to, "Yes, Your Honor." But the grin remained.

"Then why'd you let me go on like that?"

Mark's grin softened into a warm smile. His answer was spoken with candid gratefulness.

"It was really nice to hear you say it."

The judge hmmphed mildly, muttered to himself, then turned again to leave. And as he watched his friend exit the hospital room, McCormick discovered that while he was still pretty tired, he wasn't exactly miserable anymore.

 _ **END** _

* * *

_**A/N:** _The comment about McCormick going on a blind date – that ended up being with his cousin – is from the second season episode "What's so Funny. . . ?"

And if anyone was curious, on October 1st, 1987, at 7:42 A.M., there was a moderate (5.9) earthquake that affected the greater Los Angeles area. The Whittier Narrows Earthquake.

 **-ck**


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